


five conversations, starring death and their ex-best friend

by nyame002 (herprettysleeper)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herprettysleeper/pseuds/nyame002
Summary: “We dating now?”Death rolls their eyes, chomps passive-aggressively on a fry, which wasn’t a thing that you thought a person or a primordial god could do, but it seems so.





	five conversations, starring death and their ex-best friend

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](https://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/174305639187/when-you-have-a-near-death-experience-its) prompt, which I technically stuck to: _When you have a near-death experience, it's exactly what it sounds like. Death comes to your deathbed to take you to the afterlife, but you beg the immortal being to let you live. Reluctantly, Death agrees, but it comes at a price. Every time you reach a moment where you should have died, you officially owe Death one date. This is your 18th date, explain how the conversation goes._
> 
> Each number represents the number date with death. Like if it said "twelve." that would be the twelfth date with Death the person has had.

**eighteen.**

“We dating now?”

Death rolls their eyes, chomps passive-aggressively on a fry, which wasn’t a thing that you thought a person or a primordial god could do, but it seems so. The restaurant is filled with light chatter. You’re on your lunch break.

“Are you feeling better?” they ask.

You shrug. “No fluid filling up my lungs at the moment, so I’d say I’m okay. How’s your ranking now?”

“It’s fine.” No more details, which is just as much a relief as a disappointment. You don’t know what reapers—the embodiments of the end itself—have to do to climb the ladder, but you’re guessing it’s not pleasant.

(If you were younger or angrier, you might say _is this what you left me for?_ But you’re not, and you’re not cruel either, and you know it’s not fair.)

The waitress comes by and asks you both how your meal is going, and they smile at her and say, “Great, ma’am.”

When she leaves, you ask. “You know when she’s gonna kick the bucket?”

“I’ve told you, that’s not how this works.”

“Sorry for forgetting. You know how us mere mortals are.”

They don’t meet your eyes. “I have to go.”

You don’t say _see you later_ ; they already know it’s inevitable.

 

**nine.**

“It was just an infection. I gotta clean out the night machine better.”

“It almost killed you.”

“And it won’t happen again.”

You’re walking through downtown now, not acknowledging the occasional stares from people you talk to yourself. You watch your breathing, taking in breaths as deep as you can, which isn’t very deep at all, but you’re trying. Soon you might be able to walk up a flight of stairs.

Their black cape blends in with the night. You thought that dying and becoming Death would teach them to saunter, but no. They still drag their feet.

 

**interlude.**

They pull you towards the throne, and you can barely stand, shaking and coughing, gasping for air. Soon you’re on your knees.

“Beg her,” they say.

The voice is familiar, and you blink, and turn around to look at them—

“ _Now._ ” They crouch down beside you. “She won’t wait.”

You cough and start weakly, “Please, please—”

 

**one.**

“Never do that again,” Death says, touching your cheek with their thumb.

Your throat still burns as they look at your vitals, then smooth out the blanket covering you on your hospital bed. “You’ll have to come back anyway.”

“Not yet. Not now.”

 

**twenty-one.**

“It’s not your time.” Death sits at your kitchen table, the same seat they sat in when they were alive, as you angrily do the dishes.

You snort. “Hypocrite.”

They don’t say anything, but they come help you make dinner. You both eat in silence.

 

**thirty-four.**

“I told you,” you say to Death, as they make sure your hospital bed is comfortable, “you’d be back.”

They smile, tears falling down their cheeks. “You were right.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me just because I’m dying.” Not like you haven’t been dying for the last ten years, anyway. But begging’s not going to save you this time.

They have new robes now—they’re not black like before, but silver and shimmering, curly hair unhidden. The corner of your mouth turns upwards. “Finally got that promotion, huh.”

They laugh a little, and it sounds like half a sob, but it’s still warm. “Shut up, asshat.”

When it’s time to step over to the other side, the Grim Reaper holds your hand.


End file.
